


the harvest

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: Sportsfest 2018 [27]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Magical Realism, Sportsfest 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 16:25:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15319467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: He has known, they have all known for a long time, that Oikawa’s head is full of dreams. What he has not known is the timbre of them, the way they swirl into a frenzied whirlwind harmony that paints a picture brighter, darker, more vivid than waking.(The rain-soaked abandoned railway tracksThe burnt and sooty hospital wards, the rows of transmission towersThe bus stop at sunset, the unmoving Ferris wheelThe blooming flowers on the table, the sound of your voiceAll of these seem to have never existed in the first place)





	the harvest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sportsfest 2018 Bonus Round 2: Quotes | [originally posted here](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/8539.html?thread=1483611#cmt1483611)

Oikawa was nowhere to be found again and Iwaizumi had his hands full with broken glass all over the front of the shop, so Matsukawa, leaving Hanamaki to help him, said he would go look for their wayward dreamer. He finds him in the shed at the back of the garden, his arms full of wilting violets.

“You look cheery,” Matsukawa greets him.

Oikawa, curled up in an old beanbag, cracks one eyelid open. When he sees it’s Matsukawa, he waves and slumps back down.

“I’ll have you know that distilling dreams is exhausting work, Mattsun.”

“Sure.” Matsukawa says. He crosses the shed, casts a curious glance at the vial of simmering purple liquid on the counter, sets a fallen beaker upright and sits down next to Oikawa, who promptly leans over and dumps all the violets into Matsukawa’s lap.

Matsukawa picks one up and twirls it idly in his fingers. Oikawa shifts in, rests his head on Matsukawa’s shoulder and makes a big show of snoring.

“Iwaizumi’s looking for you,” says Matsukawa. “Someone knocked over a shelf. There are dreams leaking everywhere.”

Oikawa yawns. “Let me rest just a bit longer… which shelf?”

“The one with the sunset vials. The bus stops, the oceans, the school courtyards—”

“Well, that’s a pain. I rather liked those dreams.”

“Me too. I’m sorry they’re gone.”

Oikawa lets out a peevish sigh, and falls silent. The sound of his breathing reminds Matsukawa of one of those runaway dreams, the unstoppered whisper of a late summer’s breeze, the rhythm of a great wheel moving slow and steady against a golden sky. He’s been here before.

“These dreams you’ve been harvesting,” says Matsukawa, casually. “They wouldn’t happen to be your own, would they?”

“How funny. Why would you say that?”

“I stepped right into one just now. The one with the Ferris wheel.”

Oikawa laughs, tilting his head so the sound’s muffled in Matsukawa’s jacket. “That was one of my favourites.”

“Mmm. The view from the top was something.”

“We were stuck there for _such_ a long time.”

“It was five minutes, and you wouldn’t shut up about how hungry you were.“ Matsukawa smiles at the memory. He pauses, then, and picks up another violet, tickles the back of Oikawa’s hand with it.

He does not ask any more questions. He can feel Oikawa’s weight against his, resting heavily for a moment, and then Oikawa straightens to sit upright. He reaches out, presses his palms to Matsukawa’s temples and leans in so their foreheads are touching.

“Look,” Oikawa whispers.

Matsukawa closes his eyes, and looks.

In truth, he has seen it all. He has known, they have all known for a long time, that Oikawa’s head is full of dreams. What he has not known is the timbre of them, the way they swirl into a frenzied whirlwind harmony that paints a picture brighter, darker, more vivid than waking. Railway tracks receding into the rainy distance, rows of transmission towers trundling by as they sit side by side on a bus, holding hands; the burnt out shell of a hospital somewhere, the sound of Matsukawa’s own voice calling Oikawa’s name.

“There are too many of them,” says Oikawa. He’s smiling now, a smile like the pieces of glass strewn across the shopfloor. “I’ve been trying to get them out, but I’m just tired all the time. Did you know, Mattsun, when you dream too much, you don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore?”

“Some of those were real. Some weren’t,” Matsukawa murmurs. “Some… could be.”

Oikawa lets his hands fall and leans away. He’s staring at Matsukawa, and Matsukawa doesn’t have to pinch himself or Oikawa to know they’re both awake. All the glass is turning into violet petals, stirring back to life on Oikawa’s lips.

“Say something so I know this is real,” he says, and Matsukawa does.


End file.
